


Detention

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Bullying, Comeplay, Dominant Castiel, Extremely Dubious Consent, Facials, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Jock Dean, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Nipple Piercings, Panty Kink, Public Sex, Punk Castiel, Revenge, Rimming, Rutting, Sexting, Sexual Coercion, Sub Dean, Top Castiel, Trans Character, Trigonometry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You got some pretty panties there, Winchester,” Cas says, and reaches down to put two fingers into the waistband of Dean’s jeans, underneath the lacy elastic.</p><p>***</p><p>Wherein Castiel Krushnic learns Dean Winchester's biggest secret and exploits it for all it's worth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[ ](http://bettydays.tumblr.com/post/112489676112/detention-by-bettydays-20k-words-hs-au)

The end of senior year.

Cas can almost taste it.

He’s totally checked out, though. More so than he has the past thirteen years of his life—yeah, he got held back in first grade, what of it?—so he spends every day fucking around at school until he gets caught and thrown back in class.

It's a Tuesday. Fuck Tuesdays.

“Excuse me, Ms. Harvelle? May I use the restroom?” he asks, charming grin on his face.

Harvelle never falls for it, but it’s study hall, and Cas usually makes a racket using his pencils as drumsticks, getting high off of the glares of his fellow students attempting to do homework.

“You got five minutes, and don’t make me come in after you,” Harvelle replies, eyes narrowed.

Cas salutes her and slides out of his chair, walks toward the bathroom until he’s out of her line of sight, and makes a beeline for the band room, where he knows for a fact there’s a door always open during seventh period while the band nerds work on their choreography or whatever the fuck it is they do.

He walks outside into the sunny March air, warm but for the chill breeze of spring that billows into his over-sized black Sleater-Kinney t-shirt and up his phat pants, rattling the chains hanging from his hips.

He pulls his cigarette out from behind his ear and lights it with his trusty Zippo, hands covering the flame so the wind doesn’t extinguish it, breathing in the sweet flavor of tobacco and nicotine.

It certainly isn’t his worst habit.

He starts walking around the school with a false sense of purpose, keeping the cigarette at his waist with an eye out for faculty, lifting it to his lips periodically.

The sun feels warm on his skin and there’s this fire in his belly, excitement for the school year to be over, to be out of this hell, to fall asleep at four a.m. and wake up at noon every day, to loiter in front of gas stations with Charlie waiting for someone willing to buy them booze, to get baked when his parents aren’t home and play WoW for hours on end.

But there’s also this pang of dread. It’s new, knowing that he won’t be coming back to the sty in the fall. Or ever. He’ll never see these bricks from the inside again, never walk the halls aimlessly during history, never have a locker combination or overhear gossip about people he’s known his whole life and never befriended.

At least the questions have stopped, though. Last year, Cas had to endure every small-town hick who crossed his path asking what’s next for him, and he’d always tell them he didn’t know.

More accurately, he snapped at them that it was none of their fucking business.

But the reality is that, while everyone else is going off to college or joining the military, Cas can only see himself smoking weed and getting drunk and staring at the ceiling of his closet-sized bedroom until he dies.

The world just isn’t built for people like Cas—compulsive, angry, unfocused, twitchy. Growing up, they called him “emotionally disturbed,” for no rhyme or reason. That is, until they found out his parents didn’t have enough money or interest to do anything about it, and then they started treating him like the dirtbag he is, tossing him into back corners and tattooing “BAD KID” across his forehead so that he could never be anything different.

A dozen piercings, a permanent record a mile long, and a straight-D average later, a bad kid he became.

An open door to the gym catches the corner of his eye, and he stomps out the dwindling cigarette with his boot, pooling his hands in his pockets nonchalantly while he ventures inside.

Despite his lifelong habit of using backdoors—pun totally intended—Cas has never been in here before, which appears to be an equipment room. The walls are lined with shelves whereupon basketballs and freeweights and rubber mats reside.

On the other side of the room is door leading back into the building.

 _Bingo_.

He sneaks his way through and listens at the door. He hears running water, and hopes it’s not a boiler room. Regardless, there are no voices, so he turns the knob.

 _Oh_.

It’s just the boy’s locker room.

 _Anti-climactic_.

He hasn’t needed to use the gym since freshman year, but he remembers the horribly toxic aroma of pubescent boys after gym class, and is not keen on revisiting it, so he makes his way silently through the labyrinth of lockers.

The water turns off.

Cas stills, hiding at the end of a row.

Someone begins whistling, and he tracks it around the room, listens to it turn into the aisle around the corner from him.

A locker opens, the whistling stops. Clothes rustle.

Cas slowly peers around the corner.

The red locker door is covering the boy’s torso, but he sees lean, tan legs with the barest dusting of golden hair over them. His gaze trails up strong calves and quads, and lands on—

_Sweet Jesus._

—the frilliest, laciest pink panties Castiel has ever had the sincere fortune of laying eyes on. A decidedly large bulge is tucked into the front of them between two little black bows, and Cas is struggling to breathe.

His heart pounds in his chest, and he stares on, unblinking, urging the panty-wearer mentally to close the damn door already so he can see which boy in this po-dunk shit town would be sexually progressive enough to wear such a thing.

In _public._

This is pure _gold._

The boy drags a pair of jeans on and Cas tries not to huff in frustration.

At fucking _last_ , the boy closes the door, white t-shirt in hand.

Cas almost swallows his tongue.

_No._

Never. Never in a million years would he have thought—

“Dean Winchester,” Cas drawls, coy and with a cocksure grin, walking out from behind the lockers.

He leans on one of them, arms crossed over his chest, tonguing his lip ring from the inside.

Dean sees him and yelps, taking a step back, covering his chest with the t-shirt, as though Cas seeing his perky nipples and— _fuck—_ chiseled chest is his biggest concern.

“Shit, Cas. How long’ve you been standing there?”

There’s a quiver in Dean’s voice underneath the growing resolute anger, and it crackles like electricity underneath Cas’s skin, sends a shiver up his spine.

“A while,” Cas replies, grinning wider and stepping closer.

Dean swallows audibly and takes another step back. “So…so you…saw….”

“Yep.” Cas rounds on him, stepping into his personal space, and puts a hand on either side of his head against the lockers, trapping him. He leans in and whispers, _“Everything.”_

Dean is taller than Cas by a couple inches, and sure as shit stronger than him, but he doesn’t push Cas away, doesn’t even break eye contact.

This close, Dean’s eyes cross a little in that endearing way Cas first noticed when they were little kids; Dean stood at the front of the classroom reading his essay on what he did over the summer while Cas sat in the back, momentarily distracted from drawing crude pictures on his desk in pencil.

He’d never been this close before, though. Cas always watched Dean from afar, silent in the back of classrooms. He isn’t even sure they’d ever technically spoken to each other, but in such a small school, it didn’t matter.

‘Castiel’ is synonymous with ‘trouble’ in this town, so he doesn’t even need the height or strength to intimidate, just the manic stare that convinces people they’re not entirely sure what he’s capable of.

“You got some pretty panties there, Winchester,” Cas adds, and reaches down to put two fingers into the waistband of Dean’s jeans, underneath the lacy elastic.

Dean shivers under his touch, but remains silent.

“Don’t be afraid, Dean. I _like_ them.” He dips his fingers lower, feels wiry hair against his knuckles. “I’d just hate to see what _other_ people might think of them. You know, your baseball teammates, your fellow calculus nerds, your teachers.” Cas sidles closer until their hips are touching and their mouths are inches apart. “Your little brother.” Their lips brush against each other’s, the barest touch, and Dean’s breath hitches. “Your _father.”_

It’s a shot in the dark, but a damn good one.

“What do you want from me,” Dean spits out between his teeth, dark and furious.

Cas laughs, a quiet throaty sound, and replies, “A prettyboy like you? Where do I even begin?”

“I’ll rephrase,” Dean says, face alight with anger, so red that his freckles fade into his blush. “What will it take to keep you quiet?”

“If I tell you, that’ll take all the surprise out of it.” Cas removes his hand from Dean’s pants and holds it between them, palm up. “For now, though, I’ll just take your phone number.”

Dean reaches into his back pocket and shoves his phone in Cas’s hand.

Cas texts himself, then reaches around to slip the phone back into Dean’s pocket, letting his palm linger over his ass a second longer than strictly necessary.

The moment he pulls his hand away, a voice shouts, “The hell are you boys doing in here?”

Cas jumps back and almost trips over a bench.

“Nothing, Coach,” Dean replies, but there’s a tightness in his voice barely concealing his panic.

Coach Singer eyes them both. “What’re you doing in the locker room, Krushnic? I haven’t seen you break a voluntary sweat in your whole damn life.”

Cas opens his mouth to reply, but Dean cuts in, “I’m tutoring him. In math. He came by to reschedule with me before school let out.”

Singer smiles, impatient and sardonic. “Well ain't it great that you’ll have something to keep you busy in detention tomorrow night.”

“Coach!” Dean gripes. “I was just—“

“No excuses, Winchester. _Dick_ Roman is down our throats about tardiness, and it stinks, no doubt about it, but I ain’t gonna put my neck on the chopping block when you’re in here dilly dallying with the class clown.” Bobby turns on Cas and adds, “And you. I know for a fact you’re supposed to be in study hall, and I’m sure you have a standing three p.m. date with Henriksen anway, so you get outta here before I tell Ms. Harvelle where I found you.”

“Sure thing, Coach.” Cas grins and slaps Dean on the shoulder. “And I’ll see you tomorrow after school, Dean.” He catches Dean’s eye and winks, then circles around Bobby and heads out to the main hallway, hands in his pockets and whistling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all such kinky fuckers, and I love that about you.

Cas can’t tell if his stomach ache is due to the half-bag of stale Cheetos he ate for dinner, or if he’s coming down from the high of catching Dean Winchester—star baseball player in the summer and cheerleader in the winter, mathlete and all-around stupid-popular over-achiever—in pink panties.

Life just doesn’t get any better than that.

Especially considering he has Dean’s attention now. All eyes on Cas, this is his time to shine, to break Dean’s perfect little world and his perfect little mind, maybe explore his perfect little body in the process.

Cas lies in bed and tosses his cell phone into the air repeatedly, contemplating his next move.

He catches his phone, opens it to the message he sent himself from Dean’s cell—a winky face, obviously—and types:

_C: So do you wear them every day?_

Cas plays Candy Crush while waiting for Dean to respond.

Minutes tick by.

At last, Cas gets a text.

_D: No_

_C: So why today?_

Dean replies faster this time.

_D: None of your damn business_

_C: Oh, I think it’s definitely my business._

_D: Why can’t you just leave me alone?_

_C: Don’t avoid the question, Dean. Why today?_

_D: I fucking felt like it, alright?_

_C: Fair enough. Are you ready for your first task?_

_D: WTF do you mean task?_

_C: You precious little angel. You didn’t think I would let you go so easily, do you?_

_D: Fuck off_

_C: According to the Lebanon residential phone book, it looks like John Winchester still has a landline. Want to take the chance that you won’t be the first one to pick up when I call it?_

_D: He wouldn’t believe you. He doesn’t even know you_

_C: He might not. But seeds of doubt grow quickly. Are you willing to risk that he might have a peek around your bedroom while you’re at school tomorrow?_

It’s a long time before Dean replies, and Cas is tempted to actually follow through on his bluff, because he will _not_ be ignored by Dean fucking Winchester, not when he’s finally got him in the palm of his hand.

_D: What’s the fucking task_

_C: Now was that so hard? We’re just having some fun._

_D: Tell me the fucking task so I can go to bed_

_C: You over-achiever types are always so quick to get to the punchline._

_D: So make me laugh, clown_

Cas purses his lips at that, a bubble of anger rising in his gut.

He thought Dean might have been different than everyone else.

It makes this that much easier, though, knowing Dean is just one of the masses, a faceless bleating sheep being herded through life.

_C: All I want you to do is wear a pair of panties to school tomorrow. The tighter, the better._

_D: Why?_

_C: You’ll see. Goodnight, Dean._

***

Cas doesn’t sleep well that night, but he sleeps just fine through his first four classes the next day.

Since Charlie graduated last year, he doesn’t have any friends, so he usually eats lunch while walking around the halls listening to music.

It’s not like a candy bar and a Red Bull are really a sit-down meal anyway.

When the school day is finally, blessedly over, Cas’s entire body is on edge. He’s _excited_ , for the first time since—fuck, he can’t remember the last time he felt excited about anything.

He goes on autopilot to the library, where his daily detention is scheduled with Mr. Henriksen, who, to the best of Cas’s knowledge, isn’t actually a teacher so much as an overworked school board member. It works to Cas’s advantage, though, because the guy usually falls asleep about fifteen minutes in, and Cas can do what he likes so long as he’s back in his seat when the bell goes off at four-thirty.

When Cas gets to the library, Henriksen is already behind the desk, attendance clipboard out and ready.

Cas signs in and Henriksen grunts, “Krushnic,” in a complacent greeting.

Cas nods, “Henriksen,” and takes his usual seat all the way in the back.

Dean enters a few minutes later, and Cas’s body jolts, but he stays casually slouched in his chair, face trained into apathy.

Dean signs in and takes a seat the furthest away from him, directly in front of Henriksen.

Cas clears his throat, and Dean turns around, glaring at him with a fiery contempt that makes Cas’s cock twitch in his pants.

Smiling innocently, Cas pats the other half of the long table.

Dean sighs, grabs up his stack of books and moves to sit next to him.

“I think you should spread out,” Henriksen says, eyebrows raised.

“I’m tutoring him in math,” Dean replies, and it already sounds rehearsed and false, but Henriksen buys it, because the words are out of the mouth of halo-headed Dean Winchester, after all, so they must be true.

“Alright, but keep it quiet.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says as he slides into his seat, pointedly ignoring Cas. He takes the pencil out from behind his ear and opens a textbook. There’s a tattered spiral-bound notebook shoved inside it and Dean’s small, neat handwriting covers the page in numbers and symbols that Cas can’t recognize.

Cas leans in toward Dean, so close he can smell the All-American springtime boyishness of him, like fresh-cut grass and laundry hung to dry.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

“Homework,” Dean mumbles back.

“Why?”

Dean sighs for a second time and looks at Cas. His eyes are slightly crossed again because Cas hasn’t backed away, and they’re fiercely green just like they were when Cas was imagining them last night, staring up at him from below, Cas’s cock shoved down his pretty pink little mouth—

“Because unlike you, I give a shit about my future.”

“Quiet,” Henriksen calls out from behind a book.

Cas leans back in his chair and Dean begins rapidly scrawling numbers on his notebook. Nerd’s not even using a calculator.

Cas pulls out his cell phone and types out a text:

_C: Did you do what I asked?_

A moment later, Dean’s pocket buzzes and he pulls out his phone.

His body stiffens when he reads the text, jaw clenching, but otherwise he doesn’t react, except to type:

_D: Yes_

_C: And they’re nice and tight?_

_D: Yes_

_C: Are they silk or lace? What color?_

Dean takes a deep breath before replying.

_D: Teal silk_

_C: How does the silk feel against your cock?_

Dean swallows, and Cas can see his face redden.

_D: Good_

_C: So, Dean, down to business: do you like girls or boys?_

_D: Girls_

_C: What kind of girls?_

_D: idk all kinds I guess_

_C: So do you think you’d find a curvy petite girl with curly blonde hair and plush pink lips attractive?_

_D: Probably yeah_

_C: And do you think you’d like kissing her, feeling her bare breasts push against your chest as she nibbles at your lip?_

Instead of typing out a reply, Dean nods, glancing away from his phone, face turned toward his homework but not focused on it.

_C: Now that you’re thinking about her, I want you to imagine her slowly sinking onto her knees, unbuttoning your pants and mouthing softly at the silk underneath_

Dean reads the text and moves his phone on top of the textbook in front of him, flicking it to silent.

_C: She takes her time with you, waiting until you’re rock hard and leaking a stain into your panties before pulling them down and taking you into her mouth completely_

Dean’s breath quickens and he shifts in his seat.

Cas keeps an eye on him in his peripheral vision, heart hammering in his chest and dick achingly hard, trapped in the leg of his pants.

_C: Her mouth is hot and tight over your cock. You can feel the back of her throat, feel her swallow around you. She picks up your hand and puts it on her head, begging you to fuck her face. Do you?_

After a brief hesitation, Dean nods slightly.

_C: Shift your hips for me, Dean. Feel the satin stretching over your cock. Fuck into it while thinking about fucking into a hot mouth._

Dean freezes and Cas watches him, barely breathing, phone trembling in sweaty hand.

Leaning back in his chair, Dean moves his hips. It’s a slight, relaxed movement, but Dean’s hands are gripping the table, knuckles white, and his face is turned away.

Cas lets his eyes wander over Dean’s torso, lithe muscles under a plain white cotton t-shirt. They trail down to his jeans and the obscene tent in them, massive bulge against the zipper, and it takes all of Cas’s willpower not to reach out and unbutton them, shove his hand down Dean’s panties and feel him come all over his hand.

Instead, he texts:

_C: Again. Keep going._

Dean glances at his phone and moves his hips again.

And again.

His eyes flutter shut and he bites his bottom lip.

_C: Can you come like this, Dean? All that tension built up inside you, wanting someone to touch you, wanting to touch yourself. You need the friction, need to fuck onto something, but all you’ve got are those panties and me watching your every move._

Dean reads the text, hips still thrusting gently into what Cas assumes is the elastic of his panties, fucking into air. He lets out a breathy exhale and moves a little faster, screwing his eyes shut.

Cas continues watching, phone gripped tightly in his hand, breath stilled and eyes wide.

He didn’t think this would actually _work_.

Of course it makes sense; hypersensitive eighteen-year-old with a secret flare for kink, prettyboy being watched for the first time, in public.

 _Fuck_ Cas is hard. He wants to touch himself, fuck himself in his fist while he watches perfect obedient little Dean Winchester come undone in a public library from his words alone, but he can’t give himself away, can’t let Dean know how much this is affecting him.

He swallows his anticipation and types:

_C: I want you to come for me, Dean. Come all hot and messy in your panties for me. Show me what you look like when you come._

There’s a moment when Dean opens his eyes, reading the text, that everything freezes. Dean’s breath stops on the inhale, his entire body straightens and tenses for three whole seconds, and then he shudders with an exhale, hand clamping down over his mouth as his eyes squeeze shut and his hips compulsively stutter to a slow halt.

Cas risks a glance downward and sees a massive wet stain on the front of Dean’s jeans, the outline of his cock twitching and softening.

Absently, Cas touches himself.

It’s the wrong move to make.

With the slightest touch of Cas’s own hand on his cock, he comes like a rocket, fast and unexpected, and he covers his gasp with a cough behind his fist.

He can feel his own come running down his leg, enormous load hot and pooling at his thigh.

His cough wakes up Henriksen, who glares and asks, “You got a problem, Krushnic?”

Before Cas can reply, Dean butts in, “Mr. Henriksen, may I use the restroom?” His voice cracks and he coughs to clear it.

Henriksen flits his eyes over to Cas and then back to Dean, and replies with a wary, “Yeah, but be quick.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, and takes his plaid over-shirt from the back of the chair to drape it over his arm. He shoots a quick, shameful glance at Cas, filled with hatred and confusion and Cas can’t figure out what else, and leaves the library.

Cas takes the cigarette out from behind his ear, puts it between his lips with still-trembling hands, and moves to grab his Zippo too. He looks at Henriksen once before standing up, grabbing his backpack, and leaving the library in the opposite direction of Dean.

“Hey!” Victor shouts. “Get back here, Krushnic! You still got a half hour!”

Muffled around the cigarette, Cas replies, “See you tomorrow, Victor,” and shoves his way out the double doors.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to here reiterate not to try any of this at home, folks. Or I guess in this case, a public library.

That night, Cas can’t get Dean off his mind; the blushed cheeks, the plush pink lips, the shameless way he rutted into his pants until he came.

Cas thought this would be a one-time deal. He’d get Dean to come in his little satin panties and then drop the whole thing, graduate, and never see each other gain.

But this is just too good to let go.

Cas pulls his phone out from under his pillow.

_C: Have fun today, prettyboy?_

No answer. Cas drifts off even though it’s only eight p.m.

He wakes up again.

_C: I think we should try it again sometime._

Still no answer.

_C: I think we definitely need to try it again. If you get what I’m saying._

Again, no answer.

Frustrated, Cas throws his phone across his bedroom and falls asleep.

Dean Winchester will _not_ win this.

***

During Spanish, Cas tells Ms. Arnez he’s not feeling well and she gives him a pass to go to the nurse.

The nurse rolls her eyes when she sees him and he shoots her a grin. She tells him to lie down for fifteen minutes and then see how he feels.

When she leaves the room and turns off the light, he listens until her footsteps fade down the hallway, then he sits up and quietly leaves the room, checking left and right for faculty.

He makes his way into the file room of the school office and is genuinely surprised this plan would work; he thought for sure by now all their records would be on a computer, yet a dozen large filing cabinets still line the walls.

_Shit town’s still in 1995._

He’s also surprised he’d never before thought of doing this.

He opens the cabinet marked W through Z and rifles through the files for _Winchester._

He gets to _Winchester, Sam_ , and backtracks one to _Winchester, Dean._

The only papers in Dean’s folder are the past four years of class schedules.

Dean Winchester is so vanilla it _hurts._

Cas locates the one for this quarter and folds it up, shoves it in his pocket and puts the file away.

He stands up, and from the corner of his eye, he sees one lone folder on top of a cabinet. It’s enormous, an accordian file stuffed to the brim, and Cas has a sinking feeling he knows what it is.

He pulls it off the cabinet.

_Krushnic, Castiel_

He takes out the first paper.

It’s crude, purple-crayon drawing of a body without a head. The caption reads, _Daddy_.

“Fuck,” Cas whispers. He barely remembers drawing it. At the time, he thought it was funny. It made sense to him: his father always used to lose his head, so he drew his father without a head. He didn’t know what the idiom meant, just that his mother was always telling his father that he was losing his head. It was a joke that nobody seemed to get.

He pulls out a story in his third-grade handwriting. It’s about a little boy in a jungle who kills himself to save the village, because the village doesn’t want him. He’s doing them a favor, the text explains.

Beginning to feel nauseated, Cas skips through to the present: detention slips, a report on the time he got suspended for bringing a snake to school, another report on the time he got suspended for threatening to kill Fergus Crowley, report cards, boring stuff.

He keeps the drawing of his father though, folds it up and shoves it in his pocket with Dean’s schedule, then puts the file where he found it back on the cabinet, shuffling out of the room quietly and making his way back to the nurse’s office.

***

It turns out fifth period is Dean’s study hall, but being the pitiful bastard he is, according to his schedule, he uses his time to volunteer at the public library, which is directly next door to the high school.

Cas manages to escape Ms. Mills’ government class and finds the exit closest to the library luckily open. The Latin teachers are having a smoke on their free period, chatting aimlessly around the corner, and Cas sneaks by them.

He breathes a sigh of relief upon entering the neutral ground of the library where no one will yell at him for walking around.

Pocketing his hands and tonguing his lip ring, he walks hurriedly past the aisles, looking for a hot jock-nerd shelving books and—

There he is.

And he’s bent over, of course, because Cas’s life is just one big, fucked-up sitcom.

Cas tilts his head as he approaches and stares at Dean’s ass a moment, a strip of skin exposed over his jeans. His back muscles are taut and defined, his skin tan and soft, and Cas wants to bend down and lick it, lift Dean’s shirt up and fit himself over the beautiful curve of his body—

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean stands up with a gasp.

“What are you doing here?” he asks in a harsh whisper as he turns to face Cas, and Cas is sure he’s not imagining the way Dean’s pupils dilate when their eyes meet.

Cas grins. “Looking for you.”

“Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Dean is already backing up against the shelves, a large book in front of his chest.

“Mmm, brawn _and_ brains,” Cas replies, letting his eyes trail down Dean’s body. “You ignored my texts.”

His tone is clipped and accusing, and it gets the desired result from Dean, who immediately scoffs and turns back around to continue shelving books.

Cas fits himself behind Dean’s body, hips lined up so that his cock is against Dean’s ass, hands on his hips.

Dean freezes, and Cas can feel all the muscles in his body tense.

“You’ve got five seconds before I turn around and rip your fucking arms off,” Dean says calmly to the shelving unit in front of him.

Cas leans in, lips ghosting the shell of Dean’s ear, and replies, “But it would be my tongue you’d have to cut out to keep me silent.” He hikes up the hem of Dean’s shirt and gently scrapes his fingertips up Dean’s hipbones, all warm skin and growing goosebumps. “Is that what you want, Dean? To see me bleed? Because that can be arranged.”

“You’re a fucking psychopath, you know that?” Dean growls.

Cas huffs a laugh and licks a small stripe up Dean’s ear. The goosebumps double-up, and Dean shudders.

“But now I’m _your_ psychopath,” Cas whispers.

“Just tell me what you want, freak.”

In response, Cas kisses the soft skin behind Dean’s ear and unbuttons his pants, mumbles against his neck, “Tell me no, Dean. Tell me not to do this.”

But Dean doesn’t. He grips the shelf in front of him and lowers his head, a strangled desperate sound escaping his throat as Cas teases him with curious fingertips.

Cas bites back a moan when he feels lace brush against his knuckles, and coos, “Such a good boy for me, Dean.” He runs his hand into Dean’s panties and traces up the line of his half-hard cock. “I didn’t even have to ask this time.”

He slides his fingers up and down, coaxing him to hardness. In seconds, Dean is hot and heavy in his hand, and Cas can’t help himself, he hooks his chin on Dean’s shoulder, peeks down to see a purple-red, glistening-wet cock in his hand, trapped around black lace and faded denim.

Dean feels thick and long, cut like the American dream says he should be, and Cas thumbs at the slit, slides his hand up and down in a steady, slow rhythm.

“You like it like this, prettyboy? Out in the open where anyone might see? Force all those filthy little kinks in your filthy little mind out into the light of day.” Cas pumps his fist a little faster, lines his cock up in the cleft of Dean’s ass and moves his hips against it. The friction feels divine, but he keeps himself at bay, keeps a level head. “I get it, Dean. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I see you. When no one else does, I see you.” His hand is soaking wet with pre-cum, and it makes quiet, obscene noises as Dean begins stuttering his hips into Cas's fist.

Cas ruts against him, harder now, and it’s difficult not to moan, not to turn Dean around and slot their cocks together, fuck them both in his hand and kiss him like he’s been wanting to since they were kids.

Fighting back the strain in his voice, Cas adds, “And I like what I see.”

Dean bites his fist and groans, then comes hot and filthy all over Cas’s hand.

Breath ragged, before Cas can pull out of Dean's pants, Dean grips Cas by the wrist and spins around. His pupils are blown wide and his face is flushed and Cas is frozen on the spot while Dean lifts Cas's cum-covered fingers and sucks two of them into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut as he sucks himself off of Cas’s hand.

 _“Fuck fuck fuck,”_ Cas moans, and comes, so hard that he spurts up onto his stomach and chest, untouched and gripping onto Dean’s hip for purchase, staring at his fingers between a set of hot red lips, a droplet of cum falling down Dean’s perfectly freckled, dimpled chin.

Dean opens his eyes again and looks around, frozen, like he forgot who Cas is and where they are. He yanks Cas’s hand out of his mouth with a disgusted noise and shoves him into the brick wall behind them, stepping forward into Cas’s space while wiping the cum off his chin with the back of his hand.

He’s shaking with fury, and there’s a familiar glint in his eyes, one that Cas knows well; the kind of anger that pushes the bounds of rational thought, where everything goes white-hot and disintegrates and the next thing Cas knows, he’s just done a very bad thing and people are yelling at him.

Dean searches Cas’s face, inches away, and whispers, rough and enraged, “You come near me again, I’ll cut off your balls and shove them so far down your throat, you won’t be able to tell anybody anything. You hear me?”

Cas stares at Dean for several seconds, wide-eyed, wavering between fear and anger and disappointment, before shoving Dean at the chest with all his strength and storming out of the library.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLOT. BACKSTORY. WHY OH WHY DO I ALWAYS INTRODUCE PLOT AND BACKSTORY. I just wanted some barely-legal bad BDSM dubcon. Not feels. :'( 
> 
> The good news though is I didn't half-ass the plotting and it's already done and I know what's going to happen so that this doesn't turn into another dwiagv. I can at least *control* my plotting nowadays, so by my estimation, we'll end up between 20-30k words, 9-10ish chapters. Hopefully. Keep your fingers crossed.

**Nine Years Ago**

Cas sits on the bench outside of school, swinging his feet and idly picking at his thumbnail.

Someone sits down next to him, but he doesn’t bother looking up.

“Hey,” the stranger says, and Cas finally looks over, screwing his face up in confusion at Dean Winchester, who is sitting next to him but must obviously be talking to someone else, because people like Dean Winchester don’t talk to people like Castiel Krushnic. It’s pretty much law.

So Cas stays silent, assuming someone is standing behind him but too preoccupied with his own thoughts to look around.

“I said hey, Cas,” Dean repeats around an amused laugh.

Cas looks up again, even more confused, but trains his face back into complacency. “Hey?”

Dean smiles at him. “What’re you doing out here?”

Dean is one of those kids who’s charming enough that even the teachers like him. He’s everyone’s friend and no one’s bully, but he’s still too good to be talking Cas, who doesn’t even register on the social scale except for the backlash of rumors that develop when he “acts out.”

Cas shrugs. “Waiting for Charlie to get out of school.” He pauses, and adds in explanation, “We walk home together.”

“But they don’t get out of school until three,” Dean inquires.

The middle school is next door to the elementary, so Cas sits outside every day for an hour or so waiting for Charlie. It’s cold today, and Cas is wearing Gabriel’s puffy blue coat, two sizes too big for him.

At Dean’s scrutiny, Cas pulls his legs up onto the bench until his knees are touching his chest, and stretches the coat over his legs.

“I know,” Cas replies, muffled in the collar of his coat.

Dean is wearing a stylish- and expensive-looking black jacket, and his freckles stand out around the pink patches of coldness on the tip of his nose and cheekbones, messy golden hair sticking out in spots under a burgundy knitted hat.

Cas bets Dean’s mom or grandma or somebody made it just for him, and wonders what it would feel like to receive a gift like that, maybe on Christmas morning with a slew of other gifts too.

“So why don’t you take the bus?” Dean continues.

“Why don’t you?” Cas replies, staring resolutely forward at the lack of traffic on the salt-covered road.

“I have basketball practice on Thursdays. I’m waiting for my dad to pick me up.”

Then, as if on cue, an enormous black beast of a car with an obnoxiously loud engine pulls up to the curb in front of them, driven by a gruff, handsome man who grins and waves at Dean upon seeing him.

“That’s my dad,” Dean says, a small bit of pride in his voice, and adds, “I’ll see you around, Cas,” before swinging his backpack over his shoulder and getting in the car.

Cas watches them drive away, then rests his forehead on his knees.

***

**Present Day**

Cas’s forehead is resting on his knees in the waiting area of the guidance counselor’s office. He’s sitting on an ugly faded blue-purple chair and the gaudy fabric is tattered, exposing yellowed-over padding in the corners.

He stares at it, as he always does when he’s in here, body and mind resisting with every ounce of him to flee this terrible, wood-paneled place with its condescending inspirational posters from 1986 and tired school faculty who look at him like a kicked puppy.

He remembers, then, the only time in his life he’d spoken directly to Dean Winchester, on that bench in the cold nine years ago.

It was a non-event, but important enough that he remembers it now, almost a decade later; the shininess of the big car in the dull grey of winter, the youthfulness of Dean’s features, his innocently curious nature, the way he shattered all of Cas’s inherent stereotypes of the popular jock persona with one short conversation.

“C’mon in, Krushnic,” Ms. Harvelle says from the threshold of her office.

Cas unfurls himself from the chair, pocket chains rustling as they shift around his hips, and pads into her office.

She closes the door and takes a seat behind her desk—a dented-up oak monstrosity covered in papers and framed pictures of Dean Winchester’s lifelong BFF-slash-pseudo-beard, Jo.

Cas curls up in an identical chair to the one he was just on, because even though he hates this place, he can kind of be himself within these ugly-ass walls.

“You know why I called you in here, Castiel?” Harvelle asks, her face an expression of what Cas imagines to be exasperated pity as she counts down the days until he’s out of her hair for good.

Cas shrugs, because it could be any number of things, most of which Harvelle probably wishes she just didn’t know.

“Is it about the gerbil?” Cas asks with a blank expression.

There’s no gerbil. Cas just likes fucking with her.

Harvelle stares at him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips before making a note and continuing, “No. Coach Singer and Mr. Henriksen informed me that Dean Winchester is tutoring you in math. I just wanted to make sure that was true.”

Cas looks at the ceiling. For once in his godforsaken life, telling the truth would fuck things up more than lying. If he tells the truth, that no, Dean isn’t tutoring him, then it’ll open up a beautiful treasure chest of faculty intrigue, of why golden boy Dean Winchester would lie for piece-of-shit Castiel Krushnic, or why piece-of-shit Castiel Krushnic would lie to hide the fact that he’s taking an interest in his studies by employing golden boy Dean Winchester to tutor him.

Regardless, the option will set _something_ on fire, and Cas is itching to find out how it would all play out.

Yet he seems to have no control over his response when he finds himself replying, “Yes, he is.”

A corner of Harvelle’s mouth lifts up in triumph.

It makes Cas’s gut churn.

“That’s good to hear,” she says, pulling out a slip of paper from a file. “Because according to Ash, you’re failing trigonometry. And if you fail trig, you can’t graduate.”

Cas’s legs fall from their position on the chair when he leans forward and shouts, _“What?!”_

Fucking mullet-headed traitor of a math teacher who doesn’t even go by his goddamn last name. Cas sells him _weed_ for godsakes. He thought they had a _deal_ : half-off Cas’s best stock for skating by with a permanent D.

Harvelle smiles, accumulating triumph in spades. “Well look at that. An emotional reaction. I didn’t think you had it in you, Krushnic.”

Cas grips the seat of the chair, eyes wide and mouth agape, mind racing as he struggles to breathe.

“It’s a good thing you got Dean on your side, kid,” Harvelle adds with a nod. “He’s gonna be a good influence on you. I’d hate to see you have to come back next year.”

***

Cas books it to biology class and waits anxiously for Dean to arrive, waits for Dean to ignore him like he does every day as he takes a seat front and center next to his lab partner Kevin, and they talk about whatever it is nerds talk about in biology.

Cas doesn’t even _get_ a lab partner. He sits in the back by himself and sleeps through assignments, trying not to think about the deal he had to make with Ms. Masters for a D in her class.

The bell rings, and Dean still hasn't shown up. His stool next to Kevin is empty.

Cas squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember the last time Dean Winchester missed a day of school in their entire lives, and he can’t think of a single one.

He’s always just _there_ , a solid rock in the backround of Cas’s perception, and suddenly, he’s made his way to the foreground, with his pretty panties and breathy moans and blushing shame.

But now Cas actually _needs him_ so he can pass math and get out of this hellhole, and the fucker has the gall to be _absent._

Everything is so _fucked._

***

Cas makes it through the school day and his regularly-scheduled detention, but before leaving, he stops at his locker for the first time in two months to rifle through all the trash and locate his long-lost trig textbook.

When he at last finds it, the cover is sticky and the pages are warped. One half-completed assignment sticks out of the end of chapter one, evidence of Cas’s week-long, ditched attempt at changing his ways and making something of his senior year.

Then Crowley happened and everything went to shit. Now here he is, three months from graduating, and his sadistic elders are destroying the careful balance he worked so hard to maintain.

He tosses the candy wrappers and soda cans out of his backpack and shoves the textbook in next to his single, ratty notebook and Bic pen, throwing the bag over his shoulder and trying not to run the three miles between the high school and Dean Winchester’s house.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait another day to post this but I had a shitty day today and need some validation.
> 
> Just FYI for all you psych nerds, to build this iteration of Cas, I worked backwards with a specific disorder in mind.

Dean opens the door on Cas’s second buzz of the doorbell.

He looks at Cas, silent and confused.

Also, angry. Mostly angry.

“How the hell do you know where I liv—You know what, nevermind, I don’t want to know.”

Cas looks him up and down. He’s wearing black basketball shorts and nothing else, and Cas’s gaze lingers over the dip of his hipbones and the expanse of lean muscle for an extra moment before meeting Dean’s eyes again. “You don’t look sick.”

“I’m not,” Dean replies, and he’s crowded in the doorway, blocking the entrance like Cas is a stray cat who might come in and adopt the whole place for himself.

“Then why weren’t you at school today?”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Do you really have to ask that?”

Cas wrings his fists around the strap of his backpack and looks at his feet.

“Let me guess,” Dean continues. “You didn’t drop by to bring me my biology homework.”

Cas barrels into his explanation. “Harvelle called me into her office today.”

Honesty feels foreign on his tongue. It’s exposing and _awful_ and he never wants to do it again.

“And?” Dean asks, leaning against the doorframe. “That doesn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary.”

Cas ignores him and continues, still avoiding Dean’s eyes. “She told me I was failing math.”

“Also not a surprise.”

“And she asked if it was true you were tutoring me.”

At this, Cas meets Dean’s gaze, trying to hide his panic.

Dean’s eyebrows are raised in question, and Cas can see him work through the web of chaos they’ve managed to weave around this situation. When Dean finally reaches the _what if Cas lied?_ part of the throught-train, his eyes go wide. “So what did you tell her?”

“I told her yes,” Cas replies, and it’s probably the most honest he’s been in a single day since he learned how to lie at the age of three.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

“I won’t be able to graduate if I fail math,” Cas supplies. There’s a pitiful plea in the sentence, and all he can think about while Dean stands there deliberating silently is how much he wants to lace his next batch of weed and call in an anonymous tip on faculty drug use—

“Alright,” Dean says with a nod.

“Really? You’re really going to tutor me,” Cas replies in disbelief.

“One hour. I’ll get you up to speed so you can pass your next test and that’s it.” But Dean still hasn’t moved from the door.

Cas narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch?”

Without hesitation, Dean says, “Drop the blackmail and never speak to me again.”

Cas inhales sharply like Dean just stabbed him. He knows what they have isn’t a relationship or even a friendship, but part of him, some tiny ray of hope swirling around in his fucked-up brain, thought that maybe Dean was _enjoying_ their little tryst, using Cas as a scapegoat to explore his sexual deviance.

But Cas is obviously wrong.

Not having much of a choice, he takes a deep breath. “Alright. Deal.”

Dean moves aside, expression blank, and opens the door.

Cas steps inside, and Dean’s house smells the way other people’s houses always smell—like worn-in comfort and stability, a life that Cas has never known.

He has a split second to look around at the boilerplate furniture, the open kitchen, the vaulted ceilings, dozens of pictures neatly framed around a sliding glass door to a big backyard, before Dean closes the front door and opens up the one adjacent to it, leading into a basement.

“Where’re your brother and parents?” Cas asks as he follows Dean down a flight of steps.

“Sammy’s at astronomy club. Mom and Dad are on a hunting trip. They haven’t been home in a few days.”

They reach the bottom, and Cas stops at the landing, looking around at the half-finished basement; an array of guns placed neatly on the wall below shelves covered in trophies and medals, a twin bed in the far corner underneath posters of mostly-naked women, an enormous TV across from it with every console Cas has ever heard of connected to it.

There’s a corner desk with a laptop on it, and beside that desk is a seafoam green drafting table, enormous and tilted upward, a lamp hooked over the side and fancy-looking mechanical pencils lining the tray at the bottom.

Dean opens a mini fridge that appears to also serve as a bedside table and asks, “You want a pop?”

“Um, sure,” Cas replies, and Dean tosses him a can of Coke.

Cas catches it and tabs it open while Dean pulls over a chair, gesturing for Cas to sit.

Cas does, and pulls out his trig textbook, setting it down on the drafting table.

Dean looks at it with a disgusted face as he opens it. “What the hell did you do to this thing?”

Cas shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Ugh. Alright, whatever. So where are you right now in class?” Dean asks, opening the book somewhere in the middle.

“I have no idea.”

Dean stops and looks at him. “Seriously, dude, how have you gotten this far in life?”

“I make a lot of deals,” Cas replies—still _spewing_ honesty—and sips his pop.

“Forget I asked.” Dean flips through the book to chapter seventeen. “Alright, I think this is where you guys probably are. Sammy’s in Ash’s other class.”

“How is a freshman in trig?” Cas asks, ego taking a slight hit.

Dean shrugs, replying absently, “Freak’s smarter than I am I guess.”

He pulls out a notebook and a calculator from a drawer and picks up a pencil from the tray at the bottom, starting at the beginning of the chapter and explaining concepts that go right over Cas’s head and fall into the massive abyss of Things Cas Doesn’t Get.

After a few minutes of _mhm_ -ing along, Cas pulls his cell phone out of his pocket to see several Minecraft screencaps from Charlie.

Cas snorts a laugh and Dean stops.

“You’ve got forty-five minutes to understand inverse functions and you’re laughing at something on your damn phone. Don’t waste my time, Cas. I’ve got a lot of shit to get done and I’m doing you a fucking favor right now.”

Cas sighs belligerently out of habit and shoves his phone back in his pocket, redoubling his effort to concentrate.

The second attempt goes slightly better. Cas asks a couple questions and tries a few problems. He doesn’t get any of them right, but at least he’s writing numbers on paper.

Ten minutes later, he’s fidgeting in his seat, bouncing one leg and rubbing the other with his hand, periodically staring out the small window above Dean’s bed. He finished his can of pop and flicks the tab with the tip of his finger in time with his other movements.

“What is your fucking _deal?”_ Dean asks, tossing his pencil down and leaning back in his chair to stare at Cas.

Cas shakes his head, forcing himself to still his movements and focus. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop. Please continue.”

“Just… wait one sec.” Dean gets up from his seat and runs up the stairs two at a time.

He’s gone for a minute before coming back with a giant, purple rubber ball in his hands.

“What the hell is that?” Cas asks as Dean sets it on the ground in front of him.

“Stand up,” Dean says instead of answering, and Cas does while Dean pulls the chair away and replaces it with the ball. “It’s a thing my mom uses for yoga. Sit down.”

“On that?”

“Yes, on this.”

“Why?”

“So that you can move around while you think, because apparently your mind can’t move if you’re not moving along with it.”

“Oh.” That explains… a lot, actually.

Cas sits down on the ball. It sags a little under his weight, but he can bounce on it, and it moves along with his movements.

Dean continues the lesson, and at first, Cas tries to stay very still, but then he starts bouncing on the ball idly, moving in circles and in general a lot more comfortable than he usually is when he’s just sitting down and staring at something.

Even more surprisingly, when Dean has him try another problem, he gets it right.

And the next.

And the one after that too.

An hour passes, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. He teaches math with the same kind of passion Cas sees him use when he’s playing baseball and cheerleading—not that he goes to Dean’s games or anything.

Dean is patient and professional. He teaches by example and keeps Cas engaged by asking questions and having him try every new concept they learn, over and over until he gets it right.

Two hours pass, and it grows dark outside. They reach the end of the chapter and Dean sets his pencil down, leans back in his seat and says, “Looks like you got it.”

Cas continues bouncing on the ball. He doesn’t feel silly anymore doing it, and his thighs burn in a way that feels really good. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

They stare at each other in silence, Dean looking at him, smiling all lopsided like he’s not piece-of-shit Castiel Krushnic, like in another reality, they could be friends or maybe even more.

Cas doesn’t know how he looks staring back at Dean, body finally stilled, but there’s budding wonder inside of him, admiration and reverence for this beautiful genius who managed to teach Cas more in a couple hours than dozens of trained professionals could in thirteen years.

Cas’s eyes fall to Dean’s lips, then his neck and chest, and Dean’s smile fades.

Cas stands up slowly, spins Dean’s chair around toward him, and straddles him at the thighs, sitting back down so that he’s comfortably situated in Dean’s lap.

Dean opens his mouth but doesn’t speak, just continues staring at Cas, eyes wide, breathing shallow, while Cas lifts his chin and leans in, hesitating when their lips are barely brushing.

There’s a pause, a moment where everything hangs in the air between them, Cas offering and waiting for Dean to take.

At last Dean surges forward and closes the gap between them, fitting his lips against Cas’s and letting out a low groan, reaching up and running his hands up Cas’s back underneath his t-shirt.

The realization that _Dean Winchester’s hands_ are on _Cas’s body_ sends a thrill down his spine that makes his cock twitch quickly to hardness.

Cas cards his fingers in Dean’s hair and opens his mouth, lightly licking his bottom lip until Dean invites his tongue inside. He tastes like Coke and doesn’t kiss like other boys do, all sloppy and desperate, but in a way that’s so _Dean_ that it makes Cas’s chest hurt: thoughtful, methodical, reserved.

Cas sucks Dean’s lip into his mouth and Dean gasps, gripping Cas at the shoulder blades underneath his shirt and shifting them closer together as the kiss grows heated and heavy.

Their hips begin moving against one another, cocks lining up together and dragging against the fabric of their clothes.

Dean’s hands wander, riding up Cas’s chest to thumb at his nipples, and Cas breaks away to gasp.

 _“Jesus,_ Cas.” Dean stares at Cas in awe, and flicks them again, little metal rings tugging within the hardened nubs, and Cas writhes, ruts onto Dean faster.

Cas locks his mouth onto Dean’s once more, riding him with abandon, reaching down to thumb open his pants and free his cock, yanking Dean’s basketball shorts down next and gripping them both in hand.

“Fuck yeah, just like that,” Dean groans against Cas’s lips, trailing down to his neck where he bites and sucks at his collarbone.

Cas lets go of them to lick a stripe up his palm before taking them both in hand again, fucking both of them fast and hard and filthy, ruddy skin growing wet as Cas twists his wrist on the upstroke just so.

Dean relents on Cas’s nipples and grabs him at the hips, hard enough to leave bruises, face pressed against Cas’s chest as he rocks into his fist.

Cas grips Dean’s hair with his other hand, feverishly pumping them both, small moans escaping his lips as he closes his eyes and staves off the orgasm building at the base of his spine.

“Fuck, Cas. _Fuck,”_ Dean sighs, and Cas never wants to stop hearing his name fall from those perfect lips, never wants to stop kissing them and biting them and making them smile.

Cas yanks Dean’s hair back and leans by his ear, kissing up his neck as he says, “Look at me, Dean. Let me see your face when you come.”

Dean’s cheeks and neck are blushed-over, long lashes fanning over a galaxy of freckles, and he opens his eyes, staring at Cas with that beautiful green glint that haunts Cas’s every waking hour.

Face contorting in ecstacy; lips parted and jaw slack; Adam’s apple bobbing around a deep, cracking moan, Dean comes over Cas’s fist.

Cas takes it all in, the burning touch of Dean’s fingers on his skin, the way his eyes squeeze shut as his cock pulses in Cas’s hand, the way he bites his bottom lip as he chases his orgasm down.

Cas leans in and kisses Dean again, desperate and needy, fucking himself in his fist, filthy-wet with cum, and Dean kisses back with the same fervor.

He forcibly holds himself at the brink, right at the edge, and whispers a broken, _“Dean,”_ with the most raw truth he’s ever exposed to another person. It’s a plea for absolution, a prayer to the real-life angel writhing beneath him to _please_ be the one who can piece Cas back together, haphazard shrapnel of battles he never meant to cause and never wanted to win.

He comes with a strangled cry, flooded tears at the edges of his vision that he bites back as his cum pools in his fist, forehead resting on Dean’s as he catches his breath.

Dean shifts his weight, sitting up further in the chair. “Um, Cas?”

“Hmm?” Cas replies, limbs heavy and relaxed.

“I…” he begins, and pauses, swallowing audibly. “I think you should leave.”

Cas’s eyes shoot open and he stares at Dean. “What?”

Dean shrugs and can’t meet his gaze. “It’s been over an hour. You need to leave.”

Cas rises from Dean’s lap, mind completely shorting out instead of reacting rashly and with anger.

Instead, he just hurts.

He wipes his hand on his pants, grabs his book and shoves it in his backpack, mumbling, “I’ll show myself out,” before running up the stairs and out of Dean Winchester’s life for good.


	6. Chapter 6

A week passes. Cas doesn’t think about Dean Winchester.

Instead, he cleans his bedroom.

He didn’t know the carpet was white.

Another week passes, and he doesn’t think about Dean’s panty kink.

Instead, Cas does his government homework, and Mills’ eyes bug out of her head when he turns it in.

Yet another week passes, and he refuses to dwell on Dean’s freckles, the drastic bow of his lip, the way his lithe, muscular body tenses when he comes.

Instead, he finishes his trig homework and does practice problems in preparation for tomorrow’s exam.

When Ash hands out the test, he avoids Cas’s glare, but Cas catches him and asks if he could please take the test using Ash’s desk chair which spins and has wheels.

With a look of guilt, Ash agrees, and Cas takes the test on autopilot.

He’s the first to turn it in, then goes back to his seat and lays his head on his desk for the duration of the period.

One more week passes. Cas can’t help but think of startling green eyes and innocent bright smiles.

He gets his test back, having almost forgotten that he even took it, and finds a big, red A- at the top of it.

It’s the highest grade Cas has ever received.

No _wonder_ overachieving nerds exist. This feels fucking _amazing._

As soon as class is over—Cas hasn’t ditched for almost a month now—he runs into the hallway, needing to expend some of the excitable energy coursing through him.

He wishes he had someone to share this with, this _achievement_ , but Charlie is probably stoned out of her mind, his parents are at the casino already for the weekend and wouldn’t care anyway, and Gabriel hasn’t spoken to any of them in over a year.

The only one who might be happy for Cas is Dean, but Dean doesn’t give a rat’s ass about him so—

A red varsity jacket catches his eye in the hallway, along with plush pink lips that have been haunting every single one of his masturbatory fantasies for over a month.

The hallway is mostly deserted because the bell is about to ring, signaling the beginning of next period, but before Cas has time to reconsider, he grabs Dean by the shoulder and pulls him into a nearby custodial closet, shutting the door behind them.

“Cas! What the—"

Cas shoves the exam in his chest. “Look.”

Dean pulls it away and stares at it, puts the pieces together, and grins from ear to ear. “Cas, this is great!—" His smile forcibly drops and he clears his throat. “I mean, nice. Good job or whatever. But I gotta get to class now.” He hands the test back to Cas, and heads toward the door.

Cas darts in front of him, blocking his path. “Wait.”

Dean sighs and glares at him. “What, Cas.”

Cas steps closer, hesitating briefly before trailing his fingers up Dean’s chest. “I just… thought I should make it up to you somehow.”

“You did,” Dean deadpans. “You dropped your blackmail, I helped you out. We’re square. No need to speak to each other ever again.”

Cas gathers up the shattered remnants of whatever prior part of himself had the courage to seduce Dean Winchester in the first place.

“Are you…” He darts his gaze down to Dean’s pants. “…wearing them?”

Dean’s face reddens immediately, but he keeps the same angry glint in his expression. “Maybe. What of it?”

Cas steps even closer. Their bodies are inches apart, but Cas isn’t touching anymore, just hovering. “Can I see them?”

Dean’s lips purse slightly, and he doesn’t break eye contact.

“I bet you look so pretty in them,” Cas continues, voice dipping lower. “I bet no one else gets to appreciate how pretty you are in your little panties. Always has to be a secret.” He leans forward, whispering in Dean’s ear, “But you don’t have to keep any secrets from me, Dean. There’s no thought dirty enough in that beautiful mind of yours that can scare me away.”

He pulls back, sets his stuff on the ground, then reaches to Dean’s shoulders to shove his backpack off.

Dean lets him, eyes directed somewhere near the lower corner of the room.

Cas leans in and mouths at his neck while pushing his jacket off. It falls to the ground, and Cas whispers against his skin, “I think I know what you want, Dean.” He bites down on the soft flesh of Dean’s throat, squeezing it slowly between his teeth. Dean gasps, and Cas’s dick twitches in his pants at the sound, at evidence that he can _affect_ prettyboy perfectionist Dean Winchester. He lets go and places a soft kiss where he just bit, and adds, “Let me give you what you want.”

Cas backs Dean up against the cement brick wall between a shelving unit of cleaning supplies and a floor sink with a dirty mop bucket in it. The whole area smells like cleaning chemicals and dirt, and outside, Cas can hear errant footsteps running to class.

The bell finally rings, and Dean jolts, but Cas pushes him back, licks a stripe up the middle of his throat, and says, coy, “Don’t worry, this won’t take long.”

But Dean's not touching Cas, won’t put his hands through Cas’s hair, won’t push his hips against Cas. He stays stock-still, hands dangling limp at his sides.

It infuriates Cas, who presses Dean’s buttons harder, moving up and sucking Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, gently lifting his shirt and grazing his fingertips up the soft trail of hair below his belly button.

He keeps his bodily distance from Dean, so close but not touching, hands caressing and teasing. He feels Dean’s body heat up, feels his breath come out in sharp gasps, feels his cock tented in his pants, periodically grazing Cas’s hip.

“Are you gonna do it or not?” Dean growls.

Cas's lips curl into a victorious grin.

“Oh, so now you admit you want it,” he replies, pulling at the collar of Dean’s shirt and biting down on muscle, rough enough that Dean jumps, finally shoving his cock against Cas’s thigh.

 _“Fuck_ , Cas…” Dean trails off, hands balling into fists.

“Well,” Cas begins, “if you have lube like the good boy scout I’m sure you are, that can be arranged.”

Finally, _finally,_ with a patience-breaking grunt through clenched teeth, Dean reaches up and grips Cas’s hair in his fist, hard enough that it hurts and takes the wind out of his lungs. He pulls Cas in for a harsh kiss, all teeth and frustration, but it’s everything Cas has ever wanted, and he presses his entire body against Dean, meeting him with the same amount of fervor, shamelessly shoving his tongue into Dean’s mouth and rutting against him with abandon.

Dean yanks Cas’s head away and pushes him onto his knees, doesn’t let go as he palms his erection through his pants, bottom lip bitten between his teeth as he stares greedily into Cas’s open, wanting expression.

Cas swats Dean’s hand away, panting, opening the fly of his jeans and staring at the black lace in front of him.

He leans forward and mouths at the fabric, Dean’s grip still tight at the back of his head.

“Is this what you want, Dean?” Cas asks, muffled in the lace. “You want to shove your huge, pretty cock down my throat?” He reaches up and tugs Dean’s pants down until they’re snug at his thighs, trailing his fingers back up until they’re tucked into the leg of Dean’s panties, sliding them around the back and cupping Dean’s ass in his hands.

He can taste precum through the holes in the lace, and he sucks at the material, laving against it until Dean gets hard enough that his cock peeks up through the top, wet and glistening and right at Cas’s eye level.

He looks up at Dean, mouth slightly parted, lips wet and glistening, but Dean squeezes his eyes shut, grips Cas’s hair tighter, and barely—almost imperceptibly—nods his head.

“Good boy,” Cas coos, and pulls down the front of Dean’s panties. A drop of cum dribbles out and trails down the length of his shaft, and Cas licks up the entire length with the tip of his tongue to catch it, bring it up to the top and wrap his lips around the head.

Dean exhales a low groan as Cas drags his tongue around and slowly swallows Dean down, moving past his gag reflex until his lips meet wiry golden hair.

 _“Fuck,”_ Dean whispers, eyes fluttering closed while his other hand moves to the back of Cas’s head.

Cas pops off quickly and shoves two of his fingers in his mouth, wetting them and then swallowing Dean down once more, reaching between Dean’s legs and scooting his panties to the side.

He presses up between Dean’s cheeks and circles his rim with the tip of his middle finger, slicking it with his spit and hearing Dean gasp in shock above him.

But Dean doesn’t shift away. Instead, he opens his legs as wide as they’ll go within the constraints of his jeans, and leans his entire weight against the wall, gripping as much of Cas’s hair in his fists that he can.

Cas stills his head and looks up at Dean, commanding him with his eyes to fuck his face.

Dean does, pulling Cas by the hair almost completely off of his dick and shoving him back on it, then meeting him thrust for thrust as he fucks Cas’s face.

Cas lets his jaw go slack, opens up his throat and covers his teeth with his lips, waits for an inward thrust before breaching Dean’s rim with his finger, pushing up to the first knuckle so that Dean's entire body shudders in pleasure.

They continue at an even pace until Cas pushes into the second knuckle, his index finger joining in beside it. He lifts off of Dean’s dick, breathing heavy, voice ragged and wrecked as he says, “You do this to yourself, Dean? You fuck that tight little hole while thinking about me?”

At last, Cas presses forward and finds Dean’s prostate, and it takes Dean by such surprise that he cries out, hips fucking into air. Cas sucks him down once more and all of Dean’s muscles tense up.

He rubs circles around the bundle of nerves, feels Dean’s knees begin to tremble with the inability to hold himself up.

Cas pulls off again, takes Dean in hand and jacks him, fucking into him with one hand and onto him with the other, panting and licking the tip of Dean’s cock on the down stroke, muttering, “C’mon, prettyboy, come for me. Come all over me.”

Dean bites down on his fist, rutting up into one of Cas’s hands and shoving down onto the other, rhythm of his body erratic, cock slick and hard and shiny-red and Cas wants Dean to come all over his face, wants him to come so that he can finally maybe _see_  Cas, evidence that Dean wanted him enough for this, for a janitor-closet blowjob, use him and abuse him so long as he knows Cas exists at all because it’s the only thing that really matters.

Cock jolting in Cas’s grasp, Dean gasps out a, “Fuck, Cas, I’m gonna…” against his fist, comes with a strangled moan muffled in his hand, streaks of white falling onto Cas’s face but most of it landing in and around his mouth, hole clenching around Cas’s fingers in time with the waves of his orgasm.

Cas barely gets the chance to pull his fingers out and fall back onto his heels when the doorknob rattles and turns.

Dean scrambles for his pants but Cas is frozen on the spot, eyes wide, turning to the rapidly-opening door.

Surprise falls over Crowley’s expression for a fraction of a second before clouding over into a devilish grin. “Hello, boys.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR VIOLENCE AND BULLYING.**
> 
> One more chapter and we're home free. Which is probably good because you're all going to hate me after this.
> 
> I would also like to note that the implications and ambiguity I put in this chapter are intentional. It's supposed to make you feel stuff, and possibly be really confused about the stuff you're feeling.

Life had been simple until the April of Cas’s senior year.

He caused a little chaos, had some fun, got a few piercings, and gave Dean Winchester a stellar blowjob.

_Simple._

But not anymore.

Quick-draw Fergus Crowley had his phone up before Cas could tackle him to the ground, and he snapped a picture of jizz-covered Cas and panty-wearing Dean.

Crowley ran off and Cas chased after him, wiping his face as he went, and right in the middle of the hallway, Cas took him down and tried to wrench the bastard’s phone away, smash it into a million pieces, not for the sake of his own reputation, but for Dean’s.

Cas was the only one allowed to blackmail Dean Winchester.

Before he could take the phone out of Crowley’s grubby little hands, Singer darted out of his classroom, shouting, “What in the hell are you boys doing?” and threw Cas off of Crowley by the collar of his shirt.

Dean, being the beautiful idiot he is, ran up to the scene instead of fleeing it, so the three of them wound up in the office of Dick Roman, who, with glee, called all of their parents.

Crowley, for his part, refused to talk to Roman about what happened or why the fight started at all. In fact, he didn’t say a single word the entire time, except for, “I will only speak to you with my lawyer present.”

Cas’s parents didn’t pick up—they never do—so he was given detention for the remainder of the year and a sincere warning that if he caused any more ruckus, he would be getting suspended or potentially expelled before he could graduate.

Dean was merely given a single detention for not being in class when he should have been. His father had laughed on the other end of the line and told Roman to call him when something important happened, or if he needed the engine of his BMW looked at.

The tension, however, is the real consequence that Cas is now facing.

He walks into school the next morning expecting hundreds of copies of the picture to be plastered all over the walls, but nothing is different.

Crowley isn’t in English or government, so by sixth period, Cas is suspicious.

After school, he gets to detention, still looking over his shoulder, eyes darting about, waiting for Crowley to come out of the shadows and destroy everything.

Instead, Dean is in the library waiting for him. Henriksen is nowhere to be found.

He hands Cas a toothbrush and shrugs, looking away as he mutters, “Henriksen wants us to clean the grout in the second floor boys’ room.”

“Alright,” Cas replies slowly, and takes the toothbrush, following Dean to the second floor. There’s a stone in his gut, a sinking feeling that something is definitely _off._

He’s never been given a task for detention before.

And Dean has never initiated conversation with him. At least, not since they were kids.

Nevertheless, Crowley is Cas’s biggest worry, so he drops his backpack in the corner of the bathroom, turns around and asks, “So how do we—"

But Dean is on him in an instant, pressing him up against the cold tile of the bathroom wall, kissing him like the apocalypse is happening.

Cas lets out a loud gasp in shock, kisses back with the same fervor, thrusts their hips together until—

No, something is wrong.

Dean Winchester would never voluntarily kiss Castiel Krushnic. That’s not the way the world _works._

He pushes Dean off of him, breathless. “Dean, what are you doing?”

Dean smiles at him, an evil little glare that is so uncharacteristic that Cas is sure he’s actually in midst of a wet dream, that he’s going to wake up to sticky sheets and Dean’s name on his lips.

“What’s the matter, Cas? Can’t take a dose of your own medicine?”

Dean takes a step back and twists the lock on the bathroom door. The faculty had gotten rid of most of the locks years ago, but no one uses the second floor library bathroom. It’s musty and old and one of the lights keeps flickering out. There’s only one urinal and one stall and they don’t even bother painting over the graffiti, so it slowly grows, line upon line of rampant teenage vandalism spanning over decades.

Cas’s heart hammers in his chest. The way Dean is looking at him isn’t the hot math nerd, innocent heteronormative jock he’s grown to know and kind of maybe love.

The way Dean is looking at him is the way Cas has been looking at Dean since he found him in his little pink panties what feels like years ago.

There’s an edge to the glint in his eye, though, one Cas swears he doesn’t have. He knows—hopes, rather—that in his heart, if Dean had ever said no, even once, he would have stopped, would have—

Dean kisses him again, a clash of tongues and stubble, dragging his hips over Cas’s. For the first time, Cas understands how strong Dean really is, can feel all the defined muscles involved in being able to hit home runs and toss teenage girls into the air, over and over again.

“You say you see me, Cas,” Dean murmurs against his lips, “but you didn’t put the whole picture together. You underestimate me.”

He reaches into Cas’s pants pocket and pulls out the Sharpie Cas always carries around with him, like he knew it would be there, and for the first time also, Cas realizes that he _did_ underestimate Dean, in both strength and intelligence.

Cas can’t help but reciprocate the kissing in full because, despite the fear welling in his gut, it’s the best thing that will probably ever happen to him, Dean Winchester kissing him like he really fucking _wants it_.

Between kisses, Dean says, “It was fun while it lasted, Krushnic, but I got a reputation to uphold. I can’t get caught with a good-for-nothing piece of trash like you. It would ruin me.”

He trails down to Cas’s neck, bites hard enough that Cas yelps, then kisses over the hurt and laves at Cas’s collarbone.

“What did you do to Crowley?” Cas asks, voice strained and higher-pitched than he meant for it to be.

Dean huffs a laugh against Cas’s neck, crowds even closer, but doesn’t reply.

After a beat, Cas swallows, audibly. “And what are you gonna do to me?”

A wide smile crosses Dean’s face as he looks at Cas once more, grabbing him by his wrists and pulling them up over his head, pinning him to the wall with one hand.

“What you deserve.”

Cas strains against Dean’s grasp, but Dean holds him tight as he puts the cap of his marker between his teeth and pulls it off.

He reaches up and draws in big waves of his arm on the wall beside them.

“What are you writing?” Cas asks, frantic.

“Nothing you don’t already know,” Dean replies around the cap in his mouth.

He stops writing and drops the marker, spits the cap out, and kisses Cas again. This time it’s slower, sincere, saying all the words that should have transpired between them but never did.

It feels like an apology, but Cas doesn’t know what for.

Dean lets go of him and steps back.

“Hit me,” he says, standing up straight and squaring his shoulders.

Cas steps forward to turn and look at the wall.

**_DEAN WINCHESTER WEARS PINK PANTIES_ **

It looks suspiciously like Cas's handwriting, big and wide and loopy, and nothing like Dean's, small and careful and neat.

“What’s… what are you doing, Dean? Why are you doing this?” Cas asks, wavering, darting his eyes to the door.

“Hit me,” Dean repeats.

Cas shakes his head and makes for the door. “No, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to go now. I’ll deal with Henriksen—"

Dean steps in front of him. “I already dealt with Henriksen. I said, _hit me.”_

Cas musters up his old self, the one who got him out of trickier situations than this time and time again. “I don’t do S&M,” he says flippantly, with a sly smile that feels false and probably looks even worse.

Dean laughs and takes a step toward Cas.

Cas backs toward the wall again. “I won’t hit you,” he repeats, deflating.

“What if I get on my knees, Cas? What if I _beg?_ Would you hit me then? Or do you just get off on the idea that I _don’t want you.”_

It’s not true, Cas reasons with himself. It was just—Dean was just hiding how much he wanted Cas. Cas wouldn't have done all those things if he thought Dean didn't want it, deep down.

But Cas doesn’t say that aloud. Instead he defaults to the words too many people have spat at him in anger, “What is _wrong_ with you?”

Dean shrugs and cracks his knuckles, cocking his head to the side. “You tell me.”

“You’re a _freak_.”

“So are you.”

“At least I don’t go around writing graffiti about myself! Jesus.” Cas tries skirting around Dean again to get to the door.

This time, Dean steps in front of him and shoves him backward, hard enough that he hits his head on the wall. “C’mon, Krushnic, I thought you were tougher than this. I expected more from you.”

Cas winces and brings a hand up to the back of his head. “Well excuse me if I don’t want to get expelled for laying a hand on perfect little Dean Winchester.”

Dean shoves him again. “You know what you are, Cas? A coward. A dumb, crazy coward. You’re nothing. You’re a nobody. You’re gonna die in this shit town and no one’s gonna give a rat’s ass that you ever lived.”

Cas can feel it, the itch under his skin, the burning need to maim. Bile rises in his throat at Dean’s words, at his gaze, locked onto Cas and sneering.

“Finally getting angry, huh? What’re you gonna do about it?” Dean shoves him again.

But this time, Cas grabs his arms and head-butts him in the face.

“Fuck!” Dean shouts, and grabs his nose. Blood seeps through his fingers.

Cas shoves him against the sink, bunches his shirt in his fist. He’s shaking with rage as he raises his other hand, growling out, “I…” and bringing his fist across Dean’s jaw, “…am not…” He brings it down again. _“…A NOBODY!”_

He lets go of Dean, breathless, and looks at his hands. His knuckles are covered in blood and he feels faint, eyes wide as he switches his attention to Dean slumped on the floor.

Dean is barely conscious but smiling in victory, and Cas kneels down next to him, hands hovering over him, afraid to touch. “Oh my god. Dean… I’m so… oh god I’m so sorry.” His throat constricts. He didn’t mean for this to happen. He was being so good. He thought he'd changed. He was going to graduate high school and maybe try to fix up his shit life, make something of himself.

“Now it doesn’t matter what Crowley does,” Dean mutters. “Everyone will blame you for it.”

All the blood drains from Cas’s face.

Dean is right. He has the scars to prove it, that he’s the underdog in this scenario, that Cas coerced him into sex, into wearing women’s underwear. He has the texts, too. And Crowley’s picture. All he has to say is that Cas lost his shit when Dean stood up for himself.

The worst part is that most of it is true.

Cas coerced Dean into sex he didn’t want.

Cas put Dean in a situation where his privacy was exposed, where he was outed.

Cas physically abused Dean at the slightest provocation.

Cas is going to get expelled.

But the worst part, the part that makes Cas want to rip out his own heart and put it down a garbage disposal, is that he _loves_ Dean. In some fucked-up way, somehow in the span of the past month or maybe the past decade, piece-of-shit Castiel Krushnic fell in love with golden boy Dean Winchester.

And this is how Cas treats what he loves. This is why everyone has hated him his whole life. Because deep down inside, Cas is a monster.

Dean passes out, body sliding sideways across the wall and onto the ground, and Cas stands, fumbles with the lock on the bathroom door, and runs down the hallway to get Henriksen.


	8. Chapter 8

Expulsion is a messier process than Cas could have ever imagined.

Despite Roman’s innate sadism, it turns out he’s never expelled a student before. The faculty are at odds with each other on how it should actually go down, and the Superintendent is called in to seal the deal.

It happens bright and early the next morning in the conference room of the school board building. Cas sits across from Dr. Cain, avoiding his eyes, swimming in his father’s dress shirt and slacks, navy blue tie hung backwards around his neck because no one taught him how to tie it.

Dr. Cain is a calm, mostly silent man who scares the everloving crap out of Cas, more than anyone else he’s ever met. Cas is mad at himself for that, for being afraid and alone and abandoned, for not being like other kids who can control themselves better, for getting himself into this mess in the first place.

But Cas isn’t a kid anymore, he reminds himself. His parents are called several times, but as usual, they don’t answer. It doesn’t matter, though. Since Cas is nineteen, they don’t need to be present, and they haven’t been, really, since Cas became a legal adult. They remind him whenever they see him how lucky he is that they haven’t kicked him out yet.

When they find out about the expulsion, Cas imagines, he won’t be so lucky anymore.

Cas avoids telling Roman’s administrative staff that his parents have been gone on some cruise for two weeks and he has no idea when they’ll be back. The twenty they left him didn’t last long, and he’s begun resorting to theft again to feed himself, sneaking beef jerky and protein bars in his pants from the dollar store down the street.

His stomach growls and his eyes dart toward the open box of doughnuts at the other end of the room.

“You’re lucky,” Cain begins, and there’s that word again, that tiny implication that Cas is so broken that he should feel grateful to be in a world that lets him live at all.

Cas tears his eyes away from the doughnuts and looks at Cain, who is staring at him intently, like he can actually see Cas. He’s not like other educators, who avoid looking at him, busying themselves with reading and writing on various charts and reports. Dr. Cain looks at him like Dean does, like Cas exists, even when everyone else likes to ignore that fact.

“Dean Winchester is home from the hospital, and has stated that he won’t be pressing charges,” Cain says.

Cas nods and takes a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Not having charges pressed against him is still far more than he deserves right now.

Cain sets his pen down and leans on the table, clasping his hands together. “So why did you do it, Castiel?”

Cas hesitates, a flood of words on the tip of his tongue wanting to spill out, about how he didn’t understand what he was doing, and he gets it now, he really does, and he won’t do anything like it ever again, but no one gave him a chance in the first place so there’s no way in hell anyone would be willing to give him a second.

Instead, he shrugs.

“Dean refused to speak on the matter also,” Cain continues, “so we’re forced to take the facts as they stand without regard to context.”

Cain pauses and picks up the pen again, poised over a stack of papers.

“Now’s your chance, Castiel. I want to understand.”

Cas raises his chin and meets Cain’s gaze as he replies, “I blackmailed Dean into sexual acts that he did not consent to. He has text messages to prove it and Fergus Crowley possesses photo evidence. When Dean confronted me about it, I physically assaulted him. It is a disservice to every victim of sexual coercion for you to do anything less than expel me for the trauma I’ve caused Dean Winchester.”

“It sounds like you’ve learned your lesson,” Cain says calmly, moving his hand slightly away from the signature line.

“But that doesn’t dismiss my actions.” Cas swallows the lump in his throat and musters up his courage when he adds, “Just sign the damn paper.”

Cain eyes Cas for a long moment before shaking his head and scrawling his signature across the dotted line.

***

**One Month Later**

The days meld into weeks. Cas barely eats except on the rare occasion that Charlie comes over and feeds him, tells him to buck up and take another hit.

His parents found out about the expulsion. He was expecting them to yell, to throw things and scream and lament their disappointment in their son. He was hoping for any kind of reaction out of them at all.

Instead, they did nothing. They didn’t say a word, and haven’t said a word to him since. It’s been almost a month.

Cas finds himself sitting down in the shower, letting himself get pelted with hot water, washing away the filth that has accumulated on him since the last time he bathed. He brushes his teeth and feels fractionally better, but by the time he’s back in his bedroom, the weight forever at the pit of his stomach sets in again, and he crawls back into bed.

It’s early in the morning, but still dark, even though he thinks it might be the end of May or maybe June by now. He stares at the wall by his bed, knees tucked into his chest, the breeze from his ceiling fan sending chills over his body.

He doesn’t sleep, but maybe he dozes, images of the blood seeping between Dean’s fingers flitting through his mind, jolting him back to wakefulness.

He presses his forehead to his knees and runs his hands through his hair, practices the breathing exercises Harvelle taught him a long time ago. This is on him. He doesn’t deserve to be sad. He’s not the victim here, Dean is. Cas was born wrong, broken; he’s a monster, a demon—

There’s a knock on his bedroom window. He opens his eyes to find early morning sunlight tinge his vision.

He stands up and carefully pads over the wreck that is the floor of his bedroom. He slides the curtain aside to find Dean Winchester hesitantly smiling at him, standing on a steel ladder propped up against the siding of his window.

Cas blinks.

This is it. He’s finally lost his mind.

Dean points to the lock on Cas’s window and makes a twisting motion.

Cas unlocks the window and slides it open, bending down to talk through the screen. Out of all the questions that occur to him, the first one that makes it out of his mouth is, “How do you know where I live?”

Dean appears to also be confused by that question, and replies tersely, “We used to ride the bus together. Your house was two stops before mine.”

“Oh,” Cas says, frowning. His voice feels foreign and rough from lack of use. “Why are you on a ladder? I have a front door.”

“Because I didn’t want to wake your parents up.”

As if it’s common knowledge, Cas replies, “They’re in Vegas.”

Dean looks away, an expression on his face that Cas can’t quite place, and asks, “Look, can I come in or not?”

Cas is too confused and curious to deny him. “I guess,” he says, and slides the screen open.

Dean crawls inside, and for the first time, Cas can smell the early morning summer heat come through his window. It’s the smell he used to associate with freedom, but now associates with dread and aimlessness and everything else wrong with his life at present.

Dean’s wearing a pair of basketball shorts and running shoes along with a faded gray Jayhawks t-shirt. He immediately walks over to Cas’s bed and sits down while dropping his backpack between his knees and fishing through it.

Cas is frozen to the spot and rubs his eyes. He’s never been one for lucid dreaming, but this must be what it feels like, because there’s no way that Dean Winchester is in his bedroom at—Cas looks at the clock on his computer desk—five a.m. on what is presumably a weekday, sitting on his bed and rifling through his bookbag like Cas hadn’t broken his nose a month ago.

In fact, Dean looks fine. No cuts or bruises or anything, so Cas must be dreaming.

Dean pulls out a folder and looks at Cas, then huffs a laugh. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

When Cas doesn’t reply, Dean adds, “You didn’t kill me, Cas. You’re not as much of a badass as you think you are.”

Cas pauses, then asks, “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to show you something,” Dean says, and scoots over to give Cas room on the side of the bed.

Cas sits down and Dean hands him the manilla folder. The tab on the side reads, _Krushnic, Castiel_ in what looks like Ellen Harvelle’s handwriting. Cas opens it, and sees some blank forms, a class schedule, several pages of official-looking witness reports filled out by hand from what appear to be several individuals.

The last page has Dr. Cain’s signature at the bottom, and to the right is a blank line for Cas’s.

“What is this?” Cas asks in awe, unable to put the pieces together.

“Reinstatement paperwork.”

Cas jerks his head up and looks at Dean. “I’m not taking my senior year over again, Dean. I’m not going back there.”

“No, it’s for summer school. If you complete all the homework you missed and retake the exams, you can graduate.”

Cas turns back to the class schedule. It’s in a different format than he’s used to, but it looks packed, starting earlier and ending later than a regular school day, with Saturdays fully scheduled too. “There’s no way I’ll be able to learn all that.”

“I’m going to tutor you.”

Cas shakes his head and closes the folder. “How did you manage all this? How did you have time to do this?”

Dean shrugs and looks down. “Classes ended like three weeks ago for me because I took all my AP exams. Ash’s calc final was a poker tournament, even.” He pauses and takes a breath, then speeds through the remainder of the explanation, “I spent my free time doing some research. Pulled the _DSM_ from the library. It’s not the most recent edition but I pieced together some of your behavior and put together enough evidence to support that you have ADHD, or something like it, maybe hyperkinetic disorder.”

Cas scoffs and sets the folder on his nightstand. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” Lying is more difficult than Cas remembers it.

Dean eyes his leg. “You’re tapping your foot right now and you’ve checked your phone three times since we sat down. You may not realize this because you’ve been living with it for so long, but that itch under your skin to move all the time even when everyone is telling you to sit still?” He meets Cas’s eyes and shakes his head. “That ain’t normal.”

“Fuck you,” Cas replies. He doesn’t need Dean Winchester coming into his bedroom at five o’clock in the damn morning to remind Cas how broken he is.

Dean puts his hands up. “Hey man, I came here to fix shit between you and me. I don’t like having bad blood.”

“Sorry to weigh so heavy on your infinite conscience, Sir Winchester, but I don’t need your pity. Leave me alone.” Cas lies down on his bed, rolled to the side so that he’s facing the wall again, curled up exactly how he was before Dean interrupted him.

“Or what? You’ll break my nose again?” The mattress shifts, and Dean’s voice is closer when he adds, more gently, “Look, just hear me out. I put this all together and I showed it to Harvelle. I told her the truth about what happened, about the underwear and the blackmail and Crowley and baiting you until you snapped.”

“And?” Cas mutters into his pillow.

“And she felt guilty. Really guilty. I’ve never seen Ellen cry, but she was close, blamed herself for not seeing past your bullshit to figure out the actual problem. Said something about how much better your life would have been if she’d just taken the time to be patient with you instead of punish you. She pulled some strings, though, went above Roman’s head straight to Cain, and then presented the school board with a reinstatement negotiation.”

A lengthy silence stretches between them. Cas breaks it by whispering, “Why did you do it?”

“I already explained. Bad blood—”

“No,” Cas rolls over to find Dean lying next to him. Their faces are inches apart across the width of Cas’s single pillow. Dean’s eyes are a startling shade of green in the dim light of early morning, and Cas searches them, asking earnestly, “Why did you bait me until I snapped? I dropped the blackmail. I would have handled Crowley.”

Dean looks away, staring unfocused somewhere near Cas’s chest.

“I was angry. Really angry. I hated you for the things you made me do, and more for the things you made me feel. I was scared, too.”

“Of what?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs, and still won’t meet Cas’s gaze. “Of what everyone would think if they found out. Of what that would do to my future. Of my dad. And when Crowley took that picture, I knew I had to do something so that no matter what happened, there would be no question that my hands were clean. He didn’t show up to school the next day because apparently his mom was pissed he got in trouble again, and I had to strike while I had the opportunity. It was an act of desperation.”

Cas lets the silence fall between them again, several minutes this time, listening to Dean’s breathing while thinking through this complex dynamic they’ve managed to build, all because Dean likes wearing panties…

“Dean?” Cas asks, interrupting his train of thought.

Dean’s eyes are closed. He looks comfortable, lying in Cas’s bed with him, relaxed, and for a brief moment, Cas chooses to believe that he is.

“Hmm?”

“Why do you wear women’s underwear?”

“Because I like it,” Dean mutters, as though that explains it and the brunt of this difficult conversation is actually over.

“In the same way I like tapping my foot all the time?”

Dean sighs and rolls his face into Cas’s pillow. He mumbles what sounds like, “Rhonda Hurley.”

‘Hurley’ sounds familiar, but it’s a name Cas hasn’t heard in almost a decade. He seems to recall Dean hanging out with a kid named Ronnie Hurley, but now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember whatever happened to him. “I didn’t know Ronnie had a sister.”

“He doesn’t,” Dean mutters.

“Oh.”

_Oh._

Dean rolls back to his side and looks at Cas for a long moment before explaining, “Ronnie was my best friend for as long as I could remember, so it wasn’t a big deal when he told me he wanted me to call him Rhonda, refer to him as ‘her.’”

Cas remained silent, and nodded his head once to urge Dean to continue.

“When no one was around, we’d tape construction paper dresses on G.I. Joes and had tea parties. It made her really happy, and I was just happy she was happy. It never even occurred to me that what we were doing could ever be seen as wrong when it felt so right, you know? Normal, whatever the hell that means. When we were eight or nine, she switched clothes with a girl wearing a skirt, and for a day, she got to be Rhonda in public. I thought it was great, and I mean, kids teased her and stuff, but no one messed with her because they knew I’d kick their asses. But I guess someone called her parents and everything hit the fan from there. The PTA went ape-shit. Her parents were really supportive, though, which I guess was the most important thing, but for her safety, they pulled her out of school, started homeschooling her.”

Cas wants to reach out, hold Dean’s hand, comfort him somehow, but knows he can’t, knows his touch isn’t welcome anymore, not that it ever really was.

Dean continues, “Then my dad found out and wouldn’t let me hang out with her anymore, told me he didn’t want some fairy faggot queering up his boy. So I snuck out to see her when I could, which wasn’t often because Dad signed me up for every sport and club in the whole fucking state. We got older and the distance got harder to manage. It hurt more, being away from her. And I…didn’t really handle it well. I stopped seeing her when I realized what I felt for her was…more than friendship, I guess. A lot more. So I threw myself into sports and school and didn’t come up for air until I found out in our sophomore year that she had moved. I have no idea where, and I haven’t gotten up the courage to find her yet. I keep thinking, once I get to college, I’ll be away from Dad and I won’t be so afraid anymore, then I’ll find her again, and maybe we can start over.”

Though it sounds stupid, Cas asks with sincerity, “So you wear panties in her honor?”

Dean laughs bitterly and replies, “Well when you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous. It’s empowering, I guess. It’s just something I can do every day to remind myself that I don’t have to be the person everyone tells me I am. But I’m not…I’m not comfortable with that person yet. I’m trying. I’m unlearning a lot of years of brainwashing. So when you found me, and sort of…saw me for who I am, and you wanted me anyway…it felt amazing. To be seen, and understood, and accepted. But it wasn’t on my terms, and I wasn’t ready, so I freaked out.”

Their eyes lock, more understanding unfolding between them in the silence of dawn. Cas balls his hands into fists under his pillow to keep from reaching out, from expressing his affection for Dean in the only way he understands how, but instead, all he can manage is the barest honesty he can muster.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean smiles. It’s wan and a little sad, but he replies, “I’m sorry too, you know. I replay that first conversation in my head a lot, on the bench when we were kids. Rhonda had gotten pulled out of school a couple months before, and you reminded me so much of her; the way you didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of you, and how you had such a unique way of expressing yourself that adults refused to understand. I envied that about both of you. I still do. When I go over that conversation in my head, I always change it. I fix it so that before I get in the car, I ask if you want to hang out sometime, come to my house and shoot some hoops maybe. But I was just as scared then as I am now. We weren’t even friends and I was still terrified that someone would take you away from me. A decade later, I regret it all so much; every time I should have stood up to my dad and didn’t. Every time I should have befriended you but ignored you; defended you but turned a blind eye.”

He shifts closer, and his eyes cross again in the way that Cas fell in love with so many years ago. It’s light enough now that Cas can see the constellation of freckles smattered over the bridge of his nose, more prominent now that it’s summertime.

Dean continues, voice pitched lower, “I’m sorry for not telling you that you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, and that I like your piercings and your style and the way you keep a cigarette behind your ear like you’re the definition of cool. I’m sorry for not seeing through your bullshit and getting down to brass tacks when that would have solved this whole damn thing from the start. And mostly I’m sorry that I can’t seem to shut the fuck up right now when all I want to do is kiss you.”

He doesn’t move to kiss Cas, though, breath shallow in his chest as he waits for Cas to make the next move.

Cas shakes his head, fingernails digging into his palms. “Dean, I don’t think you seem to understand the actual depth of trauma I caused you. I sexually and physically assaulted you. There’s no coming back from that. There’s no redemption to be had.”

Terse, Dean replies, “No, Cas. Quit underestimating me. I understand exactly what you did. You violated me and fucked with my head and beat me up. Are you ever going to do any of that again? To me or anyone?”

“No,” Cas says without hesitation.

“And is it maybe possible that since your parents are never around and no adult has actually given you the time of day to teach you the difference between good and bad that maybe your skewed perception of the world isn’t entirely your fault?”

“Dean, I’m a monster—”

Dean interjects, “No, you’re a kid. And you’ve been mistreated. You made a mistake. You faced the consequences of your actions head-on and you learned from it. It sucks that you made that mistake with me, and you can beat yourself up all you damn well please, but don’t you dare take away my right to forgive you.”

A lump rises in Cas’s throat and the corners of his eyes start to sting. He buries his face in his pillow and shakes his head back and forth, voice cracking as he says, “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so, so sorry.”

Dean shifts even closer and trails a tentative hand down Cas’s bare back. Their bodies are pressed together and Cas instinctively curls into Dean, into his warmth and his strength and his touch.

“I know,” Dean whispers. “I forgive you.”

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“That’s not up to you to decide.”

Dean backs away and reaches out to tilt Cas’s chin up so that their eyes meet once more. He smiles as he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

Cas blinks out the small gathering of tears in his eyes, and nods before he can talk himself out of it with all the reasons why they shouldn’t.

Their lips meet, gentle and slow, Dean’s hand still on Cas’s chin. He trails his other hand up and down Cas’s back again, drags his thigh to Cas’s hip so their legs are entangled.

The stormy sea of Cas’s mind, for the first time in a month, finally calms.

Dean parts Cas’s lips with his tongue and licks his way inside. The kiss grows deeper, more heated as Dean nips at his bottom lip and presses their chests firmly together, arms wrapped around each other, holding desperate and close.

Cas can feel Dean’s hardness against his, separated only by a couple layers of fabric.

Dean moans, and it’s the most beautiful sound Cas has ever heard. He earned that moan. It’s rightfully his. He didn’t take it, didn’t force it. He sucks Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth and earns another.

His heart flutters in his chest, and he lets his hands explore freely, up the back of Dean’s shirt; warm skin at his fingertips and soft cotton against his knuckles.

Dean pulls away to trail open-mouthed kisses down Cas’s neck. Cas bites his bottom lip and says, breathless, “Tell me what you want.”

Against his throat, between kisses, Dean replies, “Anything. Everything.” He twists Cas on his back and settles between his legs, dragging his lips down to mouth at Cas’s nipple ring. He sucks it into his mouth and bites at it, tongue flicking the metal.

A guttural moan escapes Cas’s lips, and he arches his back at the touch.

While Dean moves his way across, he adds, “Whatever you’ve got in that beautiful, fucked-up mind of yours, I want,” before sucking Cas’s other nipple into his mouth.

Cas runs his hands through Dean’s hair, gasping.

“God these are so fucking sexy,” he growls out. “You have no idea how much I think about you. How much I think about this.”

When Dean circles his tongue around the ring again, Cas asks, “Do you want me inside of you?”

Dean stops and groans, resting his forehead on Cas’s sternum, and clutching his hip. “Fuck, Cas. You get me.” He makes his way back up Cas’s chest and kisses him again, hard and frantic. “How do you want me?”

“On your stomach,” Cas replies between kisses.

Dean shifts over and lies on his stomach, hands underneath Cas’s pillow.

Cas crawls to the side and situates himself between Dean’s legs, admiring the drastic curve of his ass. He reaches out pushes Dean’s shirt up a bit, puts his fingers under the elastic of Dean’s shorts, then pulls them down, slowly, savoring each inch of skin that becomes exposed to the light of morning.

He leans forward and kisses the freckled dimples of Dean’s back, until he reaches—

A groan escapes Cas’s lips at the sight below him.

Dean is wearing a plain white cotton thong, and it’s somehow sexier than all the lace and silk he’s ever worn combined. His balls are tucked neatly into them, the back nestled snugly into the crack of his perfect ass.

Cas palms himself through his pajama pants to calm his dick.

He can’t believe that after everything, he’s allowed to have this. He’s allowed to be privy to Dean’s secret deviance, his closet defiance, and he’s allowed to love him for it.

He crawls his way up and kisses the side of Dean’s neck, whispering beside his ear, “You are the most amazing human being I’ve ever known.”

Dean moans into the pillow and thrusts his hips into the mattress in response, and Cas kisses his way back down. He pulls the back of the thong from Dean’s ass, holding it aside while he settles between Dean’s legs and pulls his cheeks apart.

Dean’s hole is a beautiful dusty pink color, and Cas kisses it, nips gently at the sensitive skin around it. Dean continues making obscene noises into the pillow, hips jolting now and again at Cas’s ministrations.

Cas drags the tip of his tongue around it, and Dean let’s out a muffled, “Fuck,” into the pillow.

Cas tries it again, a bit more pressure this time, curious and teasing, loving the way Dean is writhing underneath him. He swirls his tongue around until Dean loosens up enough that Cas can press inside a little, pulling back out to make him wetter and try again.

He grips Dean’s hips and pulls him to his knees, thighs restrained by his shorts.

Cas dives back in, moaning into his ass, sliding his tongue deeper inside in time with the gradual relaxation of Dean’s muscles. Cas fucks into him until Dean is open wide, then sucks a finger into his mouth to wet it. He traces the pad of it around Dean’s rim and presses in, to the first knuckle and then the second.

Dean’s hole flutters around his finger and the sight almost makes Cas faint. He adds a second finger and licks around them both until his saliva slides down Dean’s balls and soaks his panties through.

“Another,” Dean demands, arching his back so that his ass presses further into Cas’s face.

Cas adds a third finger and crooks them against Dean’s prostate.

Dean cries out, and Cas does it again, and again, until Dean is whimpering and begging, “Fuck me, Cas. Please fuck me. I need you inside me.”

Cas removes his fingers and slides out of his pajama pants. Dean kicks off his shorts and is about to remove the rest of his clothes, but Cas stops him with a playful, “Keep them on.”

Dean grins at him, hair a mess and t-shirt bunched up at his shoulders, ass in the air with a fucked-open hole barely covered by a wet thong.

Cas rifles through his bedside drawer for a condom and some lube.

Dean makes a pleased, throaty noise when he gets an eyeful of Cas’s cock, throbbing-hard, and reaches out to stroke it in his fist.

“C’mere,” he says, and Cas steps toward him, eyes wide as Dean takes him in his mouth.

Cas’s jaw goes slack as Dean’s lips reach the base, freckled cheeks hollowed, and it’s every fantasy Cas has ever had rolled into one.

Dean is still on his knees, so Cas reaches out and rubs Dean’s ass, slithers his way under his panties and presses at his hole again, fingering him slowly while Dean sucks him down.

Cas pulls away when he feels himself getting close, and Dean crawls back to his original position.

Cas settles in behind him again and pulls his thong down to his thighs. He rolls the condom over himself and slicks himself up with lube, fingering Dean three-wide again to make sure he’s comfortably stretched open, squeezing his ass with his other hand.

“I’m ready,” Dean pants, body on fire.

“Are you sure?” Cas asks, hesitant and doubting and needing Dean’s validation to continue.

Dean huffs a laugh and says, “I’ll tattoo my consent to your face if that’s what it takes. Just fuck me already.”

Cas lines himself up and slides against Dean’s ass, flicking his hole with the head of his dick on the upstroke, pressing in barely and then moving away again.

Dean pushes back against him and growls through his teeth. “Fuck, Cas, c’mon. I need it. I need you.”

Cas presses in further, the tip of his cock breaching Dean’s hole, and he pulls out. He pushes in again, this time deeper, and pulls out a little again. He inches his way in until he settled inside Dean’s ass, bottomed-out to the hilt.

He rubs Dean’s lower back, bends over and peppers his spine with kisses. “Good?” he murmurs against the fever-hot skin of Dean’s back.

“Yeah,” Dean replies through a shaking exhale. “You can move.”

Cas pulls out and pushes back in again. Dean is so tight around his cock it’s almost painful, but he thrusts in again, and again, bottom lip bitten between his teeth.

He takes Dean’s shirt in hand from hem to collar and pulls Dean up so that they’re chest to back, bodies lined up, every inch of them touching. Cas kisses Dean’s neck and reaches around to pinch a nipple with one hand, stroking his dick with another in time with his thrusts.

Dean’s cock is rock-hard and slick with cum, and Cas tightens his grip on the way down, twists on the up-stroke the way he learned Dean likes.

There’s a familiar fire burning at the base of his spine, and his thrusts become erratic, faster and deeper, but he angles himself in a certain way that Dean cries out, body trembling. Cas grazes his prostate with every thrust until Dean is reaching behind him to grip Cas’s hips for support.

“Tell me again that you want me, Dean,” Cas whispers, voice straining.

Dean nods and replies, breathless, “I want you, Cas. More than anything.”

Cas thrusts in once more and comes inside Dean with a shuddered exhale, movements slowed to a halt as he fills Dean up, forehead pressed between his shoulder blades.

Dean comes with a strangled shout immediately after, falling forward onto his hands as he covers Cas’s fist and bed in cum. Cas strokes him through it until Dean twitches, and then Cas pulls out gently and rolls onto his back on the bed.

Dean follows after, snuggled close to avoid the wet spot, head on Cas’s chest while they both catch their breath. Cas pulls off the condom and tosses it somewhere near the trash, then cleans himself off with his sheets.

For the first time in a month, sleep pulls at the edges of Cas’s mind without the aid of drugs or alcohol.

Dean wakes him up a few minutes or a few hours later by crawling out of bed.

“Where're you going?” Cas mumbles, already moving into the patch of warmth Dean left.

Dean pulls on his shorts and laughs. “Can’t stay. Gotta get back home to take Sammy to school.”

Cas frowns, and Dean turns around to kiss him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back tomorrow. You, me, eight a.m. Trig chapter one.”

Cas rolls onto his stomach and whines into his pillow.

“That better be sleep-talk for, ‘It’s a date,’” Dean says as he tosses his bookbag over his shoulder. “Sign those papers I left and I’ll ship them off to Cain.” He climbs out the window and onto the ladder.

Cas looks up from his pillow. “Dean?”

Dean pauses on the ladder. “Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

Dean grins and winks. “See you tomorrow, Cas.”

***

**Three Months Later**

The deep rumble of a familiar engine pulls into Cas’s driveway, right on time.

His clock reads eight a.m.

Cas is already showered and dressed in a t-shirt and jogging shorts, a pair of running shoes that—oddly enough—Crowley bought for him in apology, and finishes making his bed before meeting Dean outside.

Dean grins when he sees Cas, pulls him in for a kiss instead of saying hello.

Cas will never get tired of this, of Dean Winchester touching him, wanting him in spite of his piercings and his weirdness and the complicated way his mind works.

But Dean understands him, and accepts him, and Cas understands and accepts Dean too.

They spent almost every waking moment of the summer together, running in the mornings, tutoring between Cas’s summer classes, and playing video games together in the evenings.

It had been the best summer of Cas’s life.

They aren’t technically together, because neither of them are sure what the future holds, and they’re not ready for that step yet. But whenever John Winchester eyes them suspiciously, standing too close in Dean’s kitchen while he grills burgers for them, Dean holds his father’s gaze, daring him to make a comment.

Every time, it makes Cas’s heart leap in his chest.

Cas’s parents still aren’t around much, but for the first time, it’s liberating instead of suffocating, because Cas has a new family now, and he has hope, too.

Cas pulls out two envelopes from where they were hidden behind his back.

“They both came on the same day,” he says, hiding his nervousness.

“That’s great!” Dean exclaims. “Open the one from school first.”

With shaking hands, Cas opens the envelope. On the first page is his entire year’s report card. The first three columns are Ds. The fourth is filled with dashes.

The fifth, though…

“Four As and two Bs,” Cas says, astonished.

He switches to the page after. “I’m…I’m cleared to graduate.”

He looks up at Dean, who is grinning at him, chin trembling and eyes red-rimmed. “I knew you could do it, Cas.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Cas says, throat tight. He’s overwhelmed with such intense love for the man in front of him that he can barely breathe, gazes held while he feels his heart swell inside his chest.

Dean sniffles and pushes playfully at Cas’s shoulder. “Open the second one.”

This is the envelope Cas has been dreading. It was a dumb idea to apply to college when he has a retracted expulsion under his belt and the worst grade-point average humanly possible. But with several flourishing letters of recommendation and a shockingly high SAT score, Dean convinced Cas it was worth a shot and that they might make an exception for his GPA if they understood his story.

So Cas poured his heart out into a college essay, filled out the application, and submitted it to appease Dean.

The KU logo rests on the top corner of the envelope, and Cas turns it around, thumbing open the corner and sliding his hand across.

He opens the letter and reads it.

His jaw goes slack.

His knees won’t support him anymore. He has to rest against the hood of the Impala.

“I got in,” he whispers.

Before he can even set the letter down, Dean has him wrapped in his arms, lifting him off the ground and spinning them, kissing Cas with the kind of manic intensity that only Dean Winchester possesses.

He sets Cas down. Tears are falling down his face, but he’s smiling, voice cracking as he says, “I’m so proud of you, Cas.”

Cas is beside himself. He graduated high school and got into college. He’ll be at KU with Dean for spring semester. They don’t have to be afraid of their future anymore. They can be together.

“I’m in love with you,” Cas blurts out.

Dean stares at him, frozen and wide-eyed.

Cas continues, “I know we had a rough start, but…I’m good when I’m with you. I’m better. I mean, you make me want to be the best version of myself. And I want to learn you, every freckle on your body. I want to memorize everything you are and find out all your flaws and your virtues, slowly, over time as you grow and change, and I want to love you for every single one of them. I just…I love you, Dean. I’m sorry—”

Dean interrupts him by surging forward and kissing the breath out of him.

He pulls away and says, “We agreed. No more apologies.”

“I just—”

“I know, Cas. I love you too.”


End file.
